Elusive
by wrtr74
Summary: During the early part of Sydney's missing two years, Vaughn and Will go looking for her in France. SV.
1. Chapter 1: Patterns

_This is finished now, so I'll be updating and tidying to make sure everything expires at the same time. Thank you so much to everyone who read and reviewed, and encouraged me to keep going with it! _

_Disclaimer: None of the Alias characters here, or the backstory events referred to, are mine. They belong to J.J. Abrams, or someone associated with the television show. You already knew that._

**Alias: Elusive**

**Chapter One: Pattern****s**

There was a pattern to these nights. Vaughn blinked slowly, tried to focus on the line of empty shot glasses in front of him. A pattern. First, the drinking. Counting as they went down… one, then two, and it didn't begin to touch the empty place inside until at least five or six. He always lost count before it started feeling better.

Better. Numb, at least.

The wooden countertop felt sticky under his fist.

"Un autre, s'il vous plait," he asked the man behind the bar.

"What're you, French?" the man asked. Right. Not France. Here, home. France was… last week? Was that right? Vaughn had trouble with days. They slipped away from him. He'd been in France, on leave, and now he was back, but still on leave. Failed the psych consult. Not coping, they said. Not accepting.

The man was still speaking. "…cut off."

But that was good, because it meant he was drunk. That was part of the pattern, too. And it meant that soon, maybe, he'd get to the place where he saw her. It had happened once, in France.

He tried to tell the bartender, now. It seemed important that the man understand. "She was there," Vaughn said, forming his words carefully, trying not to slur. His tongue felt thick in his mouth. "In a wig, but it was her. I'd know her… anywhere. I'm her handler." He glanced around the dimly lit bar as if to illustrate his point, as she might walk in any moment. The motion made his head spin, so he lowered it to the bar. Old wood and stale beer, that was the smell. The last thing he knew, before the dark washed over, was Syd's voice in his ear.

- - -

"Easy, there." Will Tippin's voice behind him, and Vaughn felt himself pulled up, lifted to his feet. His head lolled forwards, didn't want to lift high enough for him to meet Will's eyes.

Maybe just as well.

"Jusht… just need a minute," he said. The ground tilted beneath his feet and darkness reached for him, but fell back. His knees didn't want to work.

"Ain't got all night," a strange voice growled. The bartender.

Will shifted so Vaughn's weight fell more across his shoulders. An awkward stretch, but Vaughn figured he was in no state to protest.

"Let's get you out of the nice man's bar and home to bed," Will said.

Vaughn tried to nod.

Outside, in the alley beside the bar, he fell to his knees and threw up what felt like an unrealistic amount of fluid. It burned, coming up. Took a moment, but then he was able to stand, lean his weight against the brick wall. He wiped his forehead with his coat sleeve. Spat.

"Better?" Will asked.

He closed his eyes. "Better," he said, unwilling to admit otherwise. Something inside him knew that, when his mind cleared, he'd be ashamed that Will had seen him like this. Two breaths before he continued, and he was aware of the other man waiting the whole time. "How did you know?"

"Where you were? Or that you were about to land your ass in jail to sleep it off?" Will's voice was sharp. "Answer's the same, either way. Weiss called me. You seriously think there's a second passes, they don't know where you are? You can switch bars all you want." Will paused. "But honestly? Your regular one's better."

Vaughn felt the corner of his mouth twitch up. Not a smile, but the closest he'd been in… months, anyhow.

He felt Will's gaze on him.

"Let's go," Will said.

- - -

Streetlights flashed past as Will headed up the highway. Vaughn had rolled his window down, the less-than-fresh air the best way he knew to fight the nausea. Damned if he was going to ask Will to pull over.

Felt like a long time before they reached his house, and not a word spoken the entire drive. Something low and sad on the radio. His head felt light, but things were clearer than they had been in a while. Clear, sharp… he felt like he might cut himself on the sharp edges of light from passing car-beams. His senses were stretched thin, not dulled like they usually were, and he knew it was because of Will, because he was struggling to keep himself awake and aware and not show weakness in front of Syd's best friend.

Will pulled up in front of Vaughn's apartment building. "You okay to get in?" Will had already turned off the car, probably figuring on Vaughn needing a hand.

"Fine," Vaughn said. He paused, staring at the dashboard. Plastic, brown whorls, meant to look like wood. Not even close. "Thanks," he said.

"I didn't do it for you." Irena's voice.

Vaughn's head snapped up, but it was only Will in the car with him, and the words that hung between them were just words. Will's words.

"I did it for Sydney," Will continued, his knuckles tight on the steering wheel even though the car was at rest. He glanced at Vaughn, then away. Will's eyes were piercingly bright in the dim light. Not like hers. Hers were shadows you could fall into. "She wouldn't want… wouldn't have wanted to see you like that."

_My guardian angel_. Sydney's voice again, but this time only memory, not a hallucination. Vaughn angled his face away from Will, said nothing. Fumbling, he unfastened his seatbelt.

He heard Will's frustrated exhalation. Time to go.

Will spoke. "I mean, look at you. You're lost, man. It's not—you're not the only one who misses her."

Missing her. But it went so far beyond that.

He didn't mean to answer Will. Didn't have the language to even begin to explain. But when he looked, Will's eyes were on him, and the awareness in them unsettled him. Will had lost, too. Lost Sydney. Lost a lot of things.

And maybe Vaughn owed him for some of that.

"I saw her," he said, words coming slowly. "I know it sounds crazy. It might… I might be. I don't know. But I saw her, in France. I'm sure of it. I followed her out of the bar, into the street, but she was gone." _Cars rushing by, rain on his face as he turned, searching_. _Calling_ _her_. He laughed, harsh and sudden. "Got knocked over by a cab for my trouble. I wasn't exactly… sober at the time."

Will swallowed, jaw tightening. Pity on his face, and something else.

And suddenly Vaughn was tired, so tired. He wiped his hand over his eyes. "It's late," he said. He pushed the car door open.

Will, staring, didn't move while Vaughn pulled himself to his feet. Unsteady, but standing, which was something. Vaughn closed the door, let his hand drop on the car roof in a farewell gesture.

He made it as far as the front door before he heard the car door slam. Will's footsteps, bounding up the stairs behind him. Vaughn paused, fingers wrapped around the cold keys in his pocket.

"If you're sure," Will said, "And I'm not saying you're right. I'm not saying it's possible, but I've seen a lot of impossible over the past year or two." He fixed his stare on Vaughn again. "If you really believe you saw Sydney in France, then what the hell are you doing here?"


	2. Chapter 2: Flight Path

__

_This is finished now, so I'll be updating and tidying to make sure everything expires at the same time. Thank you so much to everyone who read and reviewed, and encouraged me to keep going with it! _

_Disclaimer: None of the Alias characters here, or the backstory events referred to, are mine. They belong to J.J. Abrams, or someone associated with the television show. You already knew that._

**Alias: Elusive**

**Chapter Two: Flight Path**

Somewhere over the Atlantic, Will had fallen asleep, sprawled in his seat, head lolling against the window. Vaughn envied him that. These days, Vaughn rarely found oblivion except at the bottom of a bottle.

It was crazy, what they were doing. Off to France on a ghost hunt. Even if it was true, if the woman Vaughn had seen really was Syd—and the thought stilled him—there was no reason to believe she'd still be in France. He knew too well what her life had been like, a different country, a different mission for every day of the week.

But it was as good a place to start as anywhere.

He had to admit, it felt good to be doing something. Good to have a mission, a direction, however insane it might be. He needed that, needed a sense of purpose to shape his days. Something he hadn't realized, before he lost it.

Lost her.

What was he doing here? He glanced at Will again.

_You have to look after him_. Her voice.

He didn't bother to look around. By now, he knew better. "I don't exactly think we're headed into danger." Madness, maybe. Madness was definitely a possibility.

_There's always danger. _

He closed his eyes, acknowledging that fact. She was right. She was always right. "I miss you," he said.

_I'm right here. All you have to do is look._

Vaughn's eyes snapped open. He sat up in his chair, scanning the airplane. There—disappearing past the curtain into first class. A woman. Slim, graceful, with brown hair that fell straight past her shoulders.

The red curtain swung closed behind her, his last glimpse a flash of ankle. An athlete's walk, a dancer's walk. Sydney's walk. No one in the world moved like she did.

He was out of his seat before thought caught up, was halfway down the aisle before doubt flashed in. But it was her. He had seen her in France, hadn't been able to let go of her, because she was alive. He knew it at the core of his being—she was alive.

They were on this plane with her because he was meant to find her.

She was here.

He pushed his way through the heavy fabric. First class—even the air smelled different. Cooler. The lights were dim, most passengers sleeping.

She wasn't here.

Vaughn stood, looking around the cabin, willing his eyes to be wrong. She could have slipped into a seat, might have doubled back along the other aisle.

A cool hand on his arm. "Puis-je vous aider, monsieur?" A flight attendant looked at him with concerned eyes.

She was slim, with brown hair. A dancer's way of holding herself.

No. It hadn't been her, couldn't have been her he saw.

"Je cherche… rien. C'est rien," he said. He passed his hand over his face, leaned on a chair.

He'd seen Sydney.

But he'd been drunk, was probably still drunk. Packed a bag that probably didn't have half of what he needed and hopped a red-eye with his dead lover's best friend.

He let the flight attendant lead him back to his seat, but refused the blanket she offered. Ordered a drink instead.

- - -

Somewhere over the Atlantic, Sydney came to him again. It was a dream, he knew it was a dream, even as he tried to hold onto it.

But his arms were cool, in the air-conditioned plane, not warm against her skin. And the rough velvet of the headrest had no give to it. His neck was stiff, bent at an awkward angle, and his mouth tasted bad.

Around him, he heard passengers stirring. Heard Will, beside him, opening the window blind. Sydney vanished, smiling.

He felt the loss again.

He asked Will, without opening his eyes, "Do you really think we'll find her?"

There was no answer at first. Vaughn wondered if he had spoken aloud, or just dreamed it. And if the dream was so close, could he get back to Sydney?

"Honestly? No. I think you were drunk and imagined her. But if there's even a small chance, even a sliver of a chance that you're right, than this is where we need to be. I mean, it's Sydney. Dead or alive, she's worth the risk." Will paused, as though weighing his words. "Besides, it beats passing out in crappy bars and airplanes."

This time, Vaughn managed a real smile, almost a laugh. It felt strange on his face, muscles not used to moving that way. He opened his eyes, then slammed them shut as sunlight knifed into his head.

"Yeah. I took the liberty of ordering you some aspirin," Will said. "Here she comes with it."

It was the stewardess from the night before. Vaughn thanked her, taking the aspirin and the water glass she offered.

Will's eyes followed the flight attendant. "Does she remind you—," he started.

"Yes." His head was pounding and his throat felt like sandpaper.

Will nodded. "I think she's got a thing for me," he said. His voice was light, but Vaughn thought it sounded forced.

Vaughn raised an eyebrow.

"Seriously," Will said. "She kept looking over this way. We even chatted a bit. Don't worry, I told her we were here on business." He glanced at Vaughn. "We're with the Credit Dauphine, if anyone asks. I thought it was a nice touch." He cleared his throat. "I'm a banker. You're my assistant."

"Your assistant?" Vaughn wasn't sure which part he objected to more, the fact that the alibi would be a red flag to anyone looking for them, or the idea that he was supposed to be subordinate to Will.

The pilot's voice came over the speakers. France's coast was visible. They'd be landing soon.

Will grinned. "Hey, you snooze, you lose. Drink less, maybe next time you can choose the cover story." His grin faded. "I'm only partly kidding, there, in case you miss it due to your hung-over state."

Vaughn glared, figuring that red eyes would only add to the impact. Will met his stare, though, not flinching.

"I mean it," Will said. "Trust me. I've had some experience with the whole substance abuse circuit. It's a bad scene."

"I can look after myself," Vaughn said. Sydney's voice echoed in his ears. _Look after him_. That was what she had said. No. It was what he had imagined her saying.

Will's gaze was measuring. "We'll see," he said.

- - -

Vaughn got up to splash some water on his face. The cupboard-sized washroom was just this side of the curtain, open now, that divided economy from first class. "What do you think, Syd, am I losing it?" he muttered, looking at himself in the mirror.

No answer.

He looked like hell. Vein-rimmed eyes sitting on dark circles. Needed a haircut, needed a shave.

"They're bankers, sir. With the Credit Dauphine." The flight attendant's voice came from the other side of the bathroom door.

Vaughn pressed his ear against the door.

"Really. That's fascinating." A cultured voice. English. Familiar.

"You know them?" the flight attendant said.

"No. No," Sark's voice repeated. "I don't think so. The man I knew wasn't a banker. The resemblance is uncanny, though. Please accept this for your troubles."

He heard the flight attendant's mild protests, heard Sark ride right over them. "Nonsense, I insist. Of course, there is no need to mention our conversation. To anyone."

The last words were stressed with just a hint of threat.

Vaughn stayed where he was until there was a knock at the door.

"Pardonnez-moi, mais nous atterrissons." It was the flight attendant. At the same time, the captain announced over the loudspeaker that the passengers needed to return to their seats and fasten seatbelts.

Vaughn let himself out, offering the flight attendant his best smile. "Merci," he said, squeezing past her.

He slid into place beside Will.

"Everything okay?" Will asked.

Vaughn nodded, waiting until he was sure no one was paying attention. Then he leaned on his armrest, masking his mouth with his fist. "Sark's here," he said. "He's on to us."


	3. Chapter 3: Escape Route

__

_This is finished now, so I'll be updating and tidying to make sure everything expires at the same time. Thank you so much to everyone who read and reviewed, and encouraged me to keep going with it! _

_Disclaimer: None of the Alias characters here, or the backstory events referred to, are mine. They belong to J.J. Abrams, or someone associated with the television show. You already knew that._

**Alias: Elusive**

**Chapter Three: Escape Route**

Vaughn had expected a fear reaction from Will. He didn't realize that until it didn't happen. Will's eyes narrowed. "We kill him," he said.

It was tempting. Vaughn wavered. "No," he said, finally. "He knows we're here. There's no surprise element, and we don't know what resources he has in place. Too risky."

Will glanced at him, then away, dismissing him. "Your opinion. Not mine."

A flight attendant made her way down the row, checking that all seatbelts were fastened and all trays in the upright position. Vaughn waited for her to pass.

He should have been sharper. Should have scouted out the plane. There had been a time when that was second nature to him. It was basic stuff, checking your environment. But the truth was, it had been a while since he had thought of himself as an agent.

Sixty-four days. That was how long she'd been gone.

_Look after him._

"This is not exactly your area of expertise," he said. "No offense, Will, but you're an analyst, not a field agent."

Will turned on him. "Yeah? Analyze this. That son of a bitch had Francie killed. He replaced her with a goddamned spy, and I slept with her. Do you get that? Do you even begin to understand what that feels like?"

Vaughn met Will's stare, saying nothing. He waited.

Will looked away first.

The plane started its descent. Vaughn felt the buildup of pressure in his ears. He swallowed. "When we get down," he said. "Follow my lead."

Will nodded.

- - -

The plane wheeled into the airport. Vaughn signaled a flight attendant, making his gestures broad and exaggerated.

"We're late," he said.

She checked her watch. "No, sir, I don't think so. We're landing on time."

He scowled at her. "Are you calling me a liar? We have a meeting to get to. This plane should have been on the ground an hour ago."

"Tony, what are you doing?" Will said.

Vaughn glared. "I booked a flight that would get us to the meeting on time. The plane is late." He stood. "They're making me look bad."

"It's fine." Will smiled nervously at the flight attendant, then glanced back at Vaughn, dropping the smile. "You're making a scene. Just sit down. I'm sure we'll be off in a moment."

"It's not fine. Here's what's going to happen. You're going to let us off the plane first, and we'll forget that you called me a liar," Vaughn said, towering over the flight attendant.

"Excuse me?" the flight attendant said, stepping back.

"Tony, sit down," Will said. "I'm sorry, he gets like this… are you drunk? Were you drinking last night?"

"I'm not drunk," Vaughn said, making his voice thick.

"Because I told you what would happen," Will said. He stood, smelled Vaughn's breath. "Are you drunk? Was he drinking?" he asked the flight attendant.

Nervously, she nodded. She took another step backwards.

"That's it," Will said. "Tony, you can't do this. I'm sorry, I just don't know how many chances I'm supposed to give you. I—you're fired. Tony, you're fired. I'll call the office when we get off the plane, they'll get you a ticket home."

"You're firing me? You son of a bitch." Vaughn wound up and cracked Will across the jaw. It wasn't his original plan, but it would do.

Will crashed back into his seat, then lunged to his feet and shoved Vaughn into the aisle. He was faster than Vaughn had figured on. Will's momentum propelled them both into the woman sitting across the aisle from them. Vaughn twisted at the last moment, taking most of Will's weight on him.

The woman screamed.

"Sorry," Will muttered. Vaughn wasn't sure if it was meant for him or for the woman.

Vaughn's push sent Will staggering back. Vaughn heard Will's head slam against the overhead compartment. He pulled himself to his feet just in time to meet Will's fist with his nose. He tasted blood, lunged, and sent Will flying to the floor. He got on top, pinning Will, raising one hand, ready to strike.

Hoping that someone would intervene before he had to.

"Enough! Assez!" They were pulled apart by rough hands.

The flight attendant shook her head. "Get them out of here," she said.

- - -

"You hit me," Will complained, rubbing his jaw.

Holding a wad of crumpled tissue to his nose to stop the bleeding, Vaughn wasn't inclined to be sympathetic. "You _fired_ be. Besides, I god us off the plade."

"Great. So I don't need to worry about Sark beating me up. Oh, wait, you already did that."

Was that supposed to be a joke? Vaughn ignored it. He moved the tissue away from his face so he could speak clearly. "Sark's going to walk through that door any minute now. If we want to be in a position to follow him, we need to move."

Suddenly serious, Will nodded.

Vaughn positioned Will on a bench, just around a corner, where Will could see if Sark dodged around and came out the economy door rather than first class. He gave Will a newspaper to hide behind. Oldest trick in the book, but there was a reason why it was a classic.

He found himself a sheltered position where he could keep an eye on Will as well as on the door from first class.

He wished he had a gun.

The passengers came out, first in singles and pairs, then in larger groups, finally a rush as everyone tried to be first to the baggage carousel. No sign of Sark.

Vaughn looked at Will, saw that he was scanning the crowd on the other side. Nothing.

The crowd went by. Vaughn tensed, ready to move, trying to match each face to Sark's. Nothing.

The rush of people slowed, then stopped. Vaughn waited. An elderly gentleman, assisted by a young woman, was last through the door. Vaughn stared hard, but there was nothing in either face that resembled Sark.

Was Sark still on the plane? Had he gotten away? Maybe he had joined the crowd on Will's side, and slipped by. Will didn't have the field experience that Vaughn did.

Or, maybe, Vaughn had been the one to let Sark by. He knew he wasn't exactly at his sharpest, hung over and exhausted, probably with enough alcohol still in his system to get him arrested if he got behind a wheel.

_Don't drink and spy. _Syd's voice, laughing. He could see her, smiling, touching a glass of wine. There were candles.

"Stop that," he said. He shook his head to clear it.

_Then pay attention_, she said, her voice echoing through his mind. _Pay attention, pay attention_.

He blinked, tried to focus. He had been, what? Here, but not here. Time had passed without his noticing. The old man and the young woman were already gone. Will was standing, folding his newspaper, turning to Vaughn with a concerned look.

Behind Will, the crew disembarked. Vaughn recognized the dark-haired flight attendant, the one who looked like Sydney. She glanced at him in passing, held his eyes.

"I miss you," he whispered. Too far away for her to hear.

Sydney smiled, blew him a kiss.

He turned away. It wasn't her.

Will grabbed him by the shoulders. "What's wrong with you, man? Pay attention!"

Vaughn knocked Will's hands away. "He's not here. He got past us."

"Look."

Behind the flight attendants, the pilots in their uniforms. A flash of blond hair under a peaked cap, moving away.

"Sark," Vaughn said.

Will nodded.

"I'll follow," Vaughn said. "You hang back."

"No."

There was no time to argue. Vaughn flashed Will a look, but moved towards the exit Sark was taking. Sark was dressed as a pilot, though. He wasn't. How was he going to get through security?

"I need a distraction," he said. He moved faster, not running, but close to it. Sticking close to the wall, always keeping someone between himself and Sark. Not far now, and Sark hadn't seen him yet. He was going to make it. If Will could distract the guards, he could slip through the door behind Sark and keep him in sight.

"Oh, God, it's a bomb!" Will yelled.

Vaughn cringed. Sark's head whipped around in the direction of the cry. Vaughn was close enough to see his eyes widen as he recognized Will. A glint of dark metal, as Sark's arm came up.

"Will, get down!" That pulled Sark's attention to Vaughn, for a split second, but Sark's arm never wavered.

The shot rang out, followed by two more as Sark took out the guards. He and the man dressed as his copilot ran through the gate. The flight attendant who looked like Sydney moved into place behind them, producing a gun from her purse, covering their exit as she backed through the door.

Panic. People were screaming, running. Vaughn pushed his way through.

Will was down, curled on his side, blood spreading over the right sleeve and breast of his jacket. Shoulder wound? Or lower? His eyes were closed.

Vaughn reached him, started looking for the wound. "Will? Will!"


	4. Chapter 4: Haven

_This is finished now, so I'll be updating and tidying to make sure everything expires at the same time. Thank you so much to everyone who read and reviewed, and encouraged me to keep going with it! _

_Disclaimer: None of the Alias characters here, or the backstory events referred to, are mine. They belong to J.J. Abrams, or someone associated with the television show. You already knew that._

**Alias: Elusive**

**Chapter Four: Haven**

Vaughn peeled Will's jacket back, trying to see where the blood was coming from. Will's eyes opened. "Ow," he said. His face was too bright, his breath coming too fast.

"Don't move yet," Vaughn said, searching. There. It wasn't bad; a clean wound, the bullet through. He just needed to get the bleeding stopped. "Can you press on it, here?"

Will cooperated. That was a good sign; he was with it enough to understand. Not too much in shock, then.

Vaughn helped Will to his feet. "We need to get out of here," he said. Will's bomb cry and the shots had caused a panic, but security would be coming for them. "Ambulance! My friend needs an ambulance!" he called, taking most of Will's weight on his shoulder. The crowd let him through.

Avoiding the elevator, Vaughn ducked into a concrete stairwell. The air was cool, smelling faintly of cigarettes. "Can you handle the stairs?" he asked Will.

Will nodded. "I'm fine," he said. He pulled away, standing on his own.

Vaughn didn't like his colour, but he respected the need for independence. He nodded, once, then started down the stairs, listening for Will's footsteps behind him.

"So which part of the plan included getting yourself shot at?" He kept his tone light. The idea was just to keep Will talking, keep him focused.

"Best I could do on short notice. You said you needed a distraction." Will's voice was strained, like he was short of breath.

Vaughn glanced behind him. Will was still coming. "I don't know what you're listening to me for. I'm just the assistant."

"Not even," Will said, grinning weakly. "I fired you."

Vaughn snorted.

There was an emergency exit at the bottom of the stairwell. It seemed like their best bet; Will was too bloody to pass through a crowd unnoticed. "Hold on," Vaughn said, shrugging out of his sports coat.

Will sat down on the bottom step, a sudden movement, like his knees were elastic. "Getting old," he said. His face was sweaty.

"Can you take your jacket off?" Vaughn asked.

Will nodded. He winced when he peeled the jacket over his right shoulder.

Vaughn took off the buttoned-up shirt he had been wearing over a plain white t-shirt, then tore it into strips. He used those to bandage Will's wound. It was quick and dirty, but it would do for a little while. "Put my coat on," he said. "It'll hide the bloodstains. Leave yours."

"I _like_ that jacket," Will protested, but he followed Vaughn out the door.

- - -

The cab dropped them where Vaughn had directed. It was an older area, a quiet part of town, laundry drying on clotheslines hung from windows, dogs roaming through cobblestone alleyways. Outside the inn, where they stood, the air smelled of bread.

Vaughn dismissed the driver with his thanks and a generous tip, then turned to Will.

"I could still get you to a safe house," Vaughn said.

Will rocked on his heels. His face was pale, but he was steady. "Yeah, you could," he said, "but then I'd miss out on all the fun. Besides, as it turns out, I don't have a lot of faith in the safety of safe houses. Especially when Sark's around."

"He has no reason to hunt us down," Vaughn said. After the fire, the CIA had debated putting Will into protective custody, but declined. Will's access to secure information was limited. With Allison dead… well, there was no reason to believe that Will was a target. And Will didn't want to go. Didn't want to give up his life, to just disappear.

_After the fire_.

Vaughn pushed thoughts of Sydney away.

"No, we're all friends now," Will was saying. He held his right arm close to his chest, cradling it in his left, probably to keep his shoulder still. "Just a little friendly gunplay between friendly friends."

"I just mean that Sark is presumably here on his own business. And while I'd love to find out what that is, now may not be the time. But I think we know him well enough to recognize that he's a business-oriented man. Whatever he's here for, that's what he'll pursue. Not us."

Will nodded. "So where does that leave us?"

"Here. This is where I was staying. This is where--," he hesitated, left the sentence unfinished. A grey cat jumped down from a window ledge to rub itself against his pant leg.

"Where you saw her," Will said. "So let's go. I'm beat."

Something occurred to Vaughn. "You don't speak French, do you?"

Will raised one eyebrow, shook his head.

"Better let me do the talking, then. This isn't exactly the tourist region."

- - -

Vaughn hadn't meant to end up down here. Had promised, in fact, that he would wait for Will. A promise made upstairs, in this very building, while cleaning up the other man's bullet wound. A bullet wound that, when you got right down to it, had been the result of Vaughn's carelessness.

You'd think a promise like that would be binding.

Sometimes, Vaughn really didn't like himself very much. The himself that was reflected in the whisky he was drinking; that was the one. He didn't like that guy. He glared into the cup.

_Stop it. You're feeling sorry for yourself_.

There she was. He had been waiting.

"Thought you'd never come," he said. It had taken more than a few shots. His head felt strangely clear, though. Other than the random voices, of course.

_You shouldn't be here_.

"Here downstairs? Or here in France?"

_Either. Both. You're supposed to be keeping him safe_.

But Will was safe enough. Vaughn had gotten the medical supplies he needed from a local contact who wasn't inclined to ask a lot of questions. Their room had two beds, and Will was passed out in one of them, not likely to move anytime before morning. Blood loss and painkillers, it seemed, trumped jet lag.

"I saw you," he insisted. "When I was here before. I saw you. I'm going to find you."

"Vous parlez a qui?" the bartender asked, looking around. "Monsieur?"

"Personne," Vaughn replied. No one. There was no one there. It was a game, a stupid game. And he had a job to do. Disgusted with himself, he shoved the half-emptied whiskey glass away.

_Go. Hurry_.

Vaughn wasn't sure where the anxiety came from. Sydney's voice, a projection of his own thoughts, urged him on. His pulse sped up as he rushed up the stairs. Few patrons were around at this time of night. He nodded to an elderly couple he passed in the hall, pasting a polite smile on, walking as quickly as he could without arousing suspicion.

There was nothing to be afraid of.

But the fear was there—the instinct that had saved his life in the field, so many times, the instinct that spotted danger before any sign of danger appeared.

The door to their room was closed, still locked, just as he had left it. He was being ridiculous. He forced himself to take a calming breath, then turned his key in the lock. He stepped into the dim room quietly. Streetlight filtered in through the half-shuttered blinds, falling in bands on the floor.

The room was silent, still. It was fine.

It wasn't.

The room was too silent. Vaughn, froze, held his breath, listened. No other sound, no other breath in the room.

Swearing, he switched on the light.

Will was gone.


	5. Chapter 5: Recrimination

__

_This is finished now, so I'll be updating and tidying to make sure everything expires at the same time. Thank you so much to everyone who read and reviewed, and encouraged me to keep going with it! _

_Disclaimer: None of the Alias characters here, or the backstory events referred to, are mine. They belong to J.J. Abrams, or someone associated with the television show. You already knew that._

**Alias: Elusive**

**Chapter Five: Recrimination**

Vaughn swore into the phone. "I know you have more information than that, Weiss. It's me. I know you."

"Just stay put. I'm sending in an extraction team," Weiss said. He sounded reasonable. Way too reasonable, given the situation Vaughn had just briefed him on.

"You already knew, didn't you?" Vaughn heard the pause on the other end.

"We had an idea that Sark might have a reason to be in the area," Weiss admitted. "Not that you were on the same flight. Not until a few hours ago. Nice scene at the airport, by the way. Mind telling me what the hell you were thinking?"

Vaughn crossed his hand over his eyes. He sat down on the edge of the bed. The paper wrappings from the dressing he had put on Will's shoulder still littered the floor. "There isn't time to send a team."

"We have an operative in the area."

"Who?"

Another pause. "I don't know," Weiss said. "Just—I was told we have someone on Sark."

"Someone. Great. Weiss, he's got Will. I'm right here. They can't have been gone long. Just give me whatever you have." Vaughn's leg shook. Adrenaline. He needed to be moving.

"Yeah, uh-huh. And when my ass ends up in a sling? You're not even supposed to be on duty, remember?"

Vaughn stood. "Weiss."

"Fine." Weiss mumbled an address. "It's an old winery. There's something Sark wants there. That's all I know. I'm not even supposed to know that much." He snorted. "I can't believe I'm sending you to a winery."

Vaughn hung up.

--

The winery had the look of an old castle—beautiful, isolated, decrepit. The air smelt of candle wax and musty furniture.

Vaughn joined a guided tour led by a man who looked old enough to be the original tenant. His pointed ears and gnomish appearance didn't exactly dispute the idea that he had come with the castle. He took them at a slow shuffle through the hall, pointing out architectural details and talking about the monks who had originally built the place. "Et puis, à la fin de siècle," the man droned, "on a ajouté ce pavillon."

Vaughn smiled politely. He stifled his impatience, watching for a chance to slip away. No sign of Sark, but no doubt the man had found his own way in. Could be long gone by now. Vaughn didn't even know where to look. The cellars seemed like a good starting point. Surely the wine cellars were part of the tour.

Another tour group approached them from behind, footsteps echoing on the stone floors. Faster guide, or different route? Most likely the former. Maybe he could switch over without being noticed.

Sark had Will. It was Vaughn's fault. Vaughn should never have brought him here, should never have left him unprotected.

"Monsieur?" Vaughn's tour guide waved a long hand, beckoning him over to admire a framed portrait of a man on horseback. So much for not being noticed.

The other group moved past. He caught a gray-haired woman staring at him from behind her glasses, but she turned away when he looked up. From habit, he checked the gun in his holster, but it was well hidden. He shook his head. Paranoid.

Watching her walk away proved one thing, though. Even grandmothers walked faster than fin-de-siècle man. He had to escape.

_Your phone_. Her voice. He was getting used to it, though. It figured—the smartest part of his brain sounded like Syd. His mouth quirked up; an almost-smile. Then he remembered Will, and the guilt followed.

"Je m'excuse," Vaughn said. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, pretending he had a call. "Oui?"

The tour guide looked offended.

Vaughn flashed him a smile and waved him ahead, while he walked back the way they had come. Once the group was out of sight, he ducked down an empty corridor, snapping his phone closed and sliding it back into his pocket.

Now what?

Sark was here on Rambaldi business. That meant an older section of the building. Vaughn followed the corridor past a series of newer-looking doorways, reading the style of the rooms and the age of the rock until he found what looked like an original hallway.

He touched one of the stones in the wall. It was cold under his hand, and covered with dust or silt. This wasn't part of the tour. Good.

He paused to get his bearings. The map in the entrance had shown the wine cellars in the north part of the building. He was headed the right way, then. Just needed to find a way down.

He heard something—a footstep so subtle that he would have missed it if he hadn't been standing still. He held his breath, listening.

Someone was ahead of him.

He eased forward slowly, soundlessly. Up ahead, a crossroads—two corridors intersecting under a series of elaborate stone arches. The footsteps came from the corridor that led off to the right.

He ducked behind a pillar.

When he saw her, his breath caught. It was the grandmother from the other tour group, the one who had stared at him. But it wasn't. She walked forward, smooth and graceful as a dancer in her pink cardigan and knee-length skirt. She had taken her glasses off and was peering at the markings carved into the pale archstones.

He knew her.

A croak, the start of a word or a cry, came from deep in his throat. He stepped out from behind the pillar, reaching.

She froze.

"Syd." His voice finally emerged.

She ran. Ran down the tunnel on the left with a speed that didn't match the gray hair, ran like she was being chased. He was at the crossroads in a flash, ready to follow her, but she was gone. Impossibly, inexplicably gone.

He listened. Hard to hear, hard to focus over his own blood rush. He couldn't breathe.

Footsteps, but they echoed. There were so many doors. It almost sounded like her steps were coming from behind him.

So he was only beginning to turn around when he sensed the other man, was nowhere near ready when he felt the sharp crack of a weight across the back of his skull.

His eyes rolled up and his body dropped. It happened in slow motion. He fell forever, never reaching the floor. The last thing his brain registered was a Rambaldi symbol carved in stone over the archway that had swallowed Sydney up.


	6. Chapter 6: Awakening

__

_This is finished now, so I'll be updating and tidying to make sure everything expires at the same time. Thank you so much to everyone who read and reviewed, and encouraged me to keep going with it! _

_Disclaimer: None of the Alias characters here, or the backstory events referred to, are mine. They belong to J.J. Abrams, or someone associated with the television show. You already knew that._

**Alias: Elusive**

**Chapter Six: Awakening**

Vaughn woke up smelling wine, heavy and sweet. Another bar, then. His head felt thick. His eyes weren't ready to open.

Something was wrong.

He lifted his head, felt a stab of pain across the back of his skull. The pain sickened him—it rang through all his bones, but it brought awareness with it. He was in a chair, tied. Somewhere cold. And the last thing he remembered—Sydney.

With a final effort, he opened his eyes. A dim room. Stone floor. Large wooden barrels stacked on shelves that reached to a distant ceiling; racks of bottles against one wall.

"He's awake." A woman's voice, beside him. He turned his head, steeling himself against the pain. It was the flight attendant, the one who looked like Sydney. She gazed at him dispassionately.

Footsteps, loud on the stones. Then Julian Sark was before him, crouching to look into his face. "Mr. Vaughn, you decided to join us. How are you feeling? Nasty headache, I'd wager."

Vaughn wondered if he had enough saliva to spit.

Sark stood, brushing his hands against his suit jacket. "I must say, I'm disappointed. This is the crack team your people send in? A rookie and a drunk? Truly, I'm offended. I thought I ranked rather higher on the CIA's hit list."

"Where's Will?" Vaughn asked. A croak.

"Somewhere safe and out of the way," Sark said. "Which is more than I can say for you. On both counts." He smiled, reaching out to pat Vaughn's cheek. Vaughn jerked his head away, then flinched.

"You'll just sit tight a moment, I trust?" Sark said. "There's something I must attend to. You'll have your part to play shortly. Gemma, watch him."

Vaughn turned, slowly, to look at the flight attendant, then focused on Sark again.

Sark smirked. "You've noticed the resemblance, I trust? Sorry—shouldn't have brought that up, I suppose." His wince was exaggerated, phony. "Please do accept my condolences." Then Sark paused. He cleared his throat. "Your girlfriend was a remarkable agent, in all truth. I have reason to know."

Vaughn watched him walk away. What would Sark say if Vaughn told him he had seen Sydney upstairs, just moments ago?

Probably the same thing everyone else would. That Vaughn was crazy. He didn't even have the excuse of drunkenness this time.

He closed his eyes. Crazy. It made sense.

_Stop it. You're wasting time._

Ah, perfect. "And what, exactly, did you want me to do?" He spoke aloud.

"Shut up," Gemma said.

_Be ready_.

It wasn't terribly specific, as instructions went, but Vaughn did open his eyes. There were two visible exits from the room he was in—Sark had gone through the first, into a connecting room. Sark was speaking to someone, but the echo distorted the words.

In the second doorway Vaughn saw carved, stone stairs leading upwards. Presumably that was how he had been brought down here.

Sark's voice again, louder, excited. "That's the one! Bring it down."

"They found it," Gemma whispered.

"What? What did they find?" Vaughn asked. He tested the knots at his wrist. Tight, but maybe he could do it.

Gemma didn't answer.

Vaughn shifted his arms, trying to loosen the ropes. Gemma seemed distracted, staring into the other room.

There was a crash of breaking wood. "Gently!" Sark shouted. "Gently, you idiots."

Then, after a moment, Sark came back into the room, holding a chalice. Three men followed, carrying weapons and tools.

Gemma took a step forwards.

"Yes, lovely, isn't it?" Sark murmured. He turned to Vaughn. "Do you know it? Surely you must recognize the style, at least."

The chalice was gold, ornate. Sark held it out for his inspection. It was cone-shaped, sharp, set into an intricate holder. A spiral wound around it the cone from the tip at the bottom to an engraved band at the top. Dancing unicorns circled the rim. The smooth stone set into the front of the chalice glowed briefly when Sark twisted it, then went dark.

"Rambaldi," Vaughn said. What else could it be?

"Indeed," Sark said. "One of the lesser-known artifacts. His grail. The unicorn's horn, he called it. Worth a small fortune—or rather, a large one."

Vaughn nodded. "Pointy. What's it for?"

Sark tilted his head. "Are you thirsty, Mr. Vaughn?"

Vaughn clamped his mouth shut.

Sark held out his hand. One of the men with Sark placed a small bottle in it. Sark uncapped the bottle. He inhaled, then pulled away. "Quite foul. One of the deadlier poisons available today, though not the fastest-acting. We need time for the test to be conclusive," he said. "Not too much time, though. Suffice it to say, Mr. Vaughn, that if the chalice does not act as advertised, you will be dead within ten minutes."

"I'm not your lab rat."

He smiled. "Of course not. We can be civilized about this. We are, after all, in a winery. Do you prefer red or white? I understand you're a single malt man these days, but one must make do." He wandered past the bottle racks, reading labels aloud, finally choosing. "This one, I think. A nice sauvignon." He blew the dust off. "Gemma?"

Vaughn watched with dread while Gemma produced a tube from a bag.

Sark uncorked the bottle, then poured some of the wine down his own throat. "Lovely." He added poison to the bottle.

At his signal, one of the men forced Vaughn's head back while Vaughn struggled. He bit down on the hand that tried to open his mouth. Someone swore, then hit him. Lights flashed behind Vaughn's eyes when his skull hit the chair.

"Enough! He can't swallow if he's unconscious." Sark's face loomed over Vaughn's. Vaughn felt a pressure at the corner of his jaw, forcing his mouth open. Someone forced a tube in, then there was liquid flowing over his face, into his mouth and nose while he tried to twist away. He held his breath as long as he could, spitting more than he swallowed, but some got in. It went on a long time.

Sark stepped back, wiping an arm across his face. "Bottle's empty. I'll wager some of that got into you," he said, panting. "It doesn't take much. Don't worry, I've kept some back for the antidote."

"You son of a bitch." Vaughn felt wine dripping off his face. His shirt was wet with it, even his hair. They hadn't gotten much into him. But some. He had swallowed some.

He spat. It landed short of Sark's feet. On the plus side, Sark's suit was already soaked with wine.

"Be nice, Mr. Vaughn. It ill becomes you to bite the hand that can save you. That's how it works, you see. The antidote is created when the poison is added to the chalice. The poison is actually transformed into the antidote. Change at a molecular level. Fascinating. If I weren't being paid so much, I might consider keeping it. It is quite pretty, after all." He frowned. "The chalice will also work with the poisoned person's blood, but we'll save that rather unappetizing experiment for later, shall we?"

Vaughn shivered.

Sark watched speculatively. "Feel anything yet?"

Cold. That was all. Just cold. He gritted his teeth, determined not to show it.

"I'll just give you a moment while we pack up," Sark said. Then someone flew into Sark. Vaughn's brain barely had time to register the movement—a flash of pink—Sark slumping to the ground. Then she was behind him, slicing through the ropes that bound his hands.

Crazy, yes, he was crazy. How else to explain a figure in an old-lady sweater and a ski mask, cutting a swath through Sark's guards? She looked like she was taking a break from her weekly bridge game to go rob a bank.

His hands were free, but strangely numb, and when he managed to stand, his vision blurred and wavered. The antidote. He needed—there. On the table. The chalice.

Sydney was there before him. No, not Sydney. Gemma. Sydney was the one in the mask. No. Sydney was dead. The one in the mask was… he had seen her. His brain moved slowly.

Gemma grabbed the chalice, ran. His stomach lurched.

Someone crashed into him from behind, sending him sprawling across the empty table. He twisted, grabbed a handful of cloth, registered a man's face, punched. The man fell to the floor. Vaughn lay on the table, panting, then a cramp across his stomach had him curling into a ball, rolling off the table. He landed on someone. Didn't care.

The pain passed. A moment of clarity. He scanned the room for Gemma. His body shivered, again and again.

He was aware of fighting behind him. Sydney—the woman in the mask—was winning. Gemma had made it to the stairs. He pushed himself to his feet, staggered across the room. Lunged. He had her. They crashed together to the ground, chalice skidding across the floor. He chased after it, ahead of her.

Someone else grabbed it, stood.

Sark.

"Much as I'd like to administer the antidote and conclude the test, Mr. Vaughn, I'm afraid we must run," he said. And then Gemma was at Sark's side, pointing a gun at Vaughn.

Sark shook his head. "You truly don't look well. A shame." He smiled.

On the other side of the room, Vaughn's rescuer had stopped moving. Sark's guards lay unconscious all around her, but she stood still, her hands raised, looking at the gun in Gemma's hand.

Sark faced off across from the woman in the pink sweater. "You're very good. Better than most I've seen, in fact. And somehow I doubt that you're actually seventy years old, despite the ridiculous outfit. I don't like mysteries. Take off your mask."

The woman took a step closer.

"From there, if you don't mind," Sark said. He rubbed his jaw.

They were looking at the woman. _Sydney_, Vaughn's brain insisted. Sweat dripped from his skin and his vision blurred again. He tried to focus. Pain in his stomach, and his limbs felt numb.

Sark's attention was on Sydney, and even Gemma, who held the gun, was ignoring Vaughn for the moment. A chance.

He shuddered—another chill. He rolled tight with another cramp, this time feigned. The movement brought him to Gemma's feet. He raised his head, trying to signal Sydney with a look. She had peeled the mask as high as her jaw.

Vaughn struck at the back of Gemma's knees. She crashed down on top of him. He heard the gunshot, but didn't feel the heat on his arm until seconds later.

By then, he had her pinned. He heard a struggle behind him, saw the gun slide across the floor. He could reach it, if he let go of Gemma's arm.

She had seen it, too. She looked at the gun, then back at him.

"Don't try it," he said.

Nausea. He closed his eyes, fought it down. Concentrated on not moving, on holding Gemma still. He knew Sydney could take Sark if he just kept Gemma out of the picture.

When he looked again, Gemma was smiling smugly. "Two minutes. Tops," she said.

He growled, lunged for the gun. Got it. He heard Gemma scramble away.

The gun was heavy. He couldn't lift it. He pulled it close, lay down on top of it, hiding it. That was the best he could do for Sydney. He was so cold, and tired. His arm hurt. He curled up, closed his eyes, feeling the stones rough under his cheek.

In the dark, he didn't feel so cold. The sounds faded to nothing.

- - -

Hands on him, rough, urgent.

"Vaughn, wake up! You have to drink this. Vaughn!"

Something hard pressed against his lips, tipping up, liquid pouring into his mouth. He tried to turn away, tried to fight like before, but she was stronger. He choked, coughed, but swallowed. Enough.

It burned, going down.

Cramping again, worse this time. He screamed. Heard something clatter to the ground.

It took a long time for the burning to subside, for him to start noticing things again. The stone floor beneath him. Her arms around him. Her smell.

He opened his eyes, looked up into her face. She bent over him. Her eyes, every feature, just as he remembered, just as he had imagined so many times.

"Vaughn?" Her voice was small.

He reached up, touched her cheek. A tearstain. "You died."

She nodded once, then again. A darting smile that vanished as soon as it appeared, then she burrowed her face into his chest, squeezing the breath out of him.

He let his arms circle around her, his hands smoothing her hair, running down her back. Feeling her—the warmth, the weight, the realness of her.

It crossed his mind that he might be dead, too. He had died from the poison, and this was what came after. His angel.

He was fine with that.


	7. Chapter 7: Together

__

_This is finished now, so I'll be updating and tidying to make sure everything expires at the same time. Thank you so much to everyone who read and reviewed, and encouraged me to keep going with it! _

_Disclaimer: None of the Alias characters here, or the backstory events referred to, are mine. They belong to J.J. Abrams, or someone associated with the television show. You already knew that._

**Alias: Elusive**

**Chapter Seven: Together**

In a strange echo of the previous evening, Vaughn sat on a lumpy bed while Sydney dressed the bulletwound in his arm. It was nothing—a graze. But when he gritted his teeth against the antiseptic sting, he remembered Will doing the same thing while Vaughn treated his more serious shoulder wound.

"Will," he said.

Sydney glanced up from her work. "I know. We'll find him."

He reached out to touch the frown lines on her forehead. Had not, in fact, been able to stop himself from touching her since he woke up in the winery.

The motel room—paid cash, no questions asked of them or by them—smelled of mothballs and mildew. Vaughn was pretty sure he wasn't the first person to show up bleeding. He was pretty sure nothing he and Syd were capable of would be a first for a place like this. He smirked. Not exactly the place he would have chosen for a reunion. Didn't matter. He caressed her cheek, earning a questioning glance.

She was blond now. He had asked her about it, tugging at a strand of her hair. She had taken his hand, but hadn't explained.

Hadn't explained anything, really.

"I think that'll hold," Sydney said. Tape and gauze. He rolled his sleeve down, over it. He was lucky Gemma wasn't a better shot. Lucky on a lot of counts.

He tucked Sydney's hair behind her ear, let his hand rest there, against the familiar softness. It was going to take some getting used to, the blond colour. A disguise, obviously. Who was she hiding from? "We need to talk," he said.

She nodded, not meeting his gaze.

"Syd." He pulled her close, leaning against the headboard while she rested against his chest. "I thought you were dead. I thought—." He stopped. Buried his nose in her hair. Familiar, but different—a chemical-floral scent that he didn't remember, but underneath, Sydney.

She squeezed his hand. "I know," she said again. "Vaughn, I'm so sorry. If there had been any other way…".

"Any other way to what? What's going on?" They were safe now, as safe as they could be in an anonymous motel room with a priceless chalice stashed under the bed. Regrouping, planning their next move. They were done running for the moment. It was time to talk.

Except that Sydney didn't seem to want to. She shifted her grip, clung tight to his arm. He felt dampness on his sleeve. "Sydney? It's all right now. You're back, that's all that matters. It's over. You can tell me what happened."

She shook her head.

He stroked her hair, waiting for her to be ready.

Finally, she took a deep breath. "It's better for you if you don't know."

He tensed up. It took an effort to keep his voice even, when he spoke. "We handle things together. You and me. That's how we've always done it."

"Not this time. I'm sorry. I just can't."

He pulled away, turning her so she had to face him. There was no way she could look at him and say that. No way she could shut him out while she was looking her in the eye.

She was faster than him. Twisted over, pressing her front against his, pressing him back against the pillows. Her eyes, inches away from his, were shadowed.

She kissed him, hard and fast and hungry, melting into him.

"God, I missed you," she said into his ear.

Her hand crept under his shirt, then lower. He groaned. With an effort that didn't bear thinking about, he grabbed hold of her wrist. "Sydney, no. First tell me the truth."

She froze. "The truth? The truth is that I can't tell you who I am or where I'm going or anything at all, except that I'm not coming back yet. Vaughn, this is all the time we have. Do you really want to spend it arguing?"

He didn't.

With a mental promise to himself to get answers later, he let her go.

She stared at him for a moment, her gaze unfathomable, then kissed him again, this time gently. He deepened the kiss, rolling on top of her, pressing her into the bed. Soft. He had forgotten how soft her skin was.

"I love you," he whispered, tracing kisses down her jawline, moving lower, down to her throat. She arched her back.

His phone rang.

"Stay," he said.

She shook her head. "Will."

Vaughn swore as guilt swamped him. "Will."

--

He flipped open his phone.

"You have something I want. I have someone you want," Sark said. "The traditional situation. What do you suppose we do about it?"


	8. Chapter 8: Poison

__

_This is finished now, so I'll be updating and tidying to make sure everything expires at the same time. Thank you so much to everyone who read and reviewed, and encouraged me to keep going with it! _

_Disclaimer: None of the Alias characters here, or the backstory events referred to, are mine. They belong to J.J. Abrams, or someone associated with the television show. You already knew that._

**Alias: Elusive**

**Chapter Eight: Poison**

Barely dawn the next morning, and clouds already hung low. The wind threatened rain. "Known but to God," Vaughn read aloud, gripping the case that held the replica chalice. He had been here before, had seen the rows and rows of white crosses, but the words always got to him. Lost soldiers, their names and identities gone forever.

"Kind of hits home, doesn't it?" Sydney's voice was soft in his ear. A transmitter, this time, not a hallucination.

He heard the roar of waves in the distance. Omaha beach. There was a faint taste of salt in the air, even up here on the cliff.

"Stirring, isn't it?" Sark's dry, British voice was unwelcome in this place.

Vaughn stiffened, then turned to face him. Sark wore a long, grey overcoat. His right hand was in the pocket, presumably pointing a gun at Vaughn.

"I wouldn't expect you to think so. Last I checked, your loyalty went to the highest bidder," Vaughn said.

Sark shrugged. "A man may admire heroes. It doesn't necessitate his being one."

Vaughn decided to let that pass. "Where's Will?"

"In a moment," Sark said. "Where's your bodyguard? Grandma in the ski mask?"

Sydney was in the trees, watching, with the real chalice safely hidden nearby. "She had a euchre tournament," Vaughn said, deadpan.

Sark angled his head to one side. "Come on, now, you can tell me. Who is she? She's quite good."

Vaughn felt a ghost of a smile on his face. "You have no idea." The wind picked up, throwing the first raindrops, sharp and icy, against his cheek. It was good. The rain might keep bystanders away.

Sark waited a beat, then nodded. He held out his hand for the case. "May I?"

Rather than passing it to him, Vaughn set the case on the ground, then opened it. He crouched beside it, ready to spring if Sark moved too quickly.

Sark gave it a cursory glance. "Nice work. Looks authentic. If I didn't know you so well, I'd believe you had brought the real thing."

Vaughn controlled his reaction. "I did." Sydney had assured him that her contacts did good work. He'd been impressed at what they had produced, and how quickly.

It wasn't going to be enough.

"Mm-hmm," Sark said. "Well, the test is simple." He produced a vial from his pocket, offering it to Vaughn.

Just the sight of it made his stomach lurch. "I'm not thirsty, but you go ahead."

Sark smirked. "You'll find your friend behind the monument. Take the vial. I'll follow."

Vaughn heard Sydney's sharp intake of breath, but he was already moving, snatching the chalice out of the case, grabbing the vial out of Sark's hand, running.

Will lay on the marble steps, curled in fetal position, pale and panting. He lifted his head as they ran up, but gave no sign of recognizing either Vaughn or Sark. He squinted as though he were trying to focus, then his head dropped down again.

"Will! What have they done to you?" Sydney's cry in the transmitter told Vaughn that she had changed position, was seeing what he saw.

"Poison," Vaughn said, out loud.

"Obviously," Sark said, pulling up behind him. "Of course, that's not a problem, is it? If you've brought the real chalice."

"Back off," Vaughn growled, shoving Sark into a marble column.

Sark raised his hands. "You're wasting time."

Vaughn heard Sydney swear. "I'm coming in," she said.

He knelt beside Will, fumbling with the vial. "How long?" he asked Sark.

Sark shrugged. "He doesn't seem to handle it as well as you did. It's been… six or seven minutes, perhaps?"

They'd foreseen this, of course. Vaughn had a second vial, containing an antidote to the poison Sark had given him earlier, as close as Sydney's contacts could figure without having a sample. It would slow Will's symptoms, at least, and buy them time to get him to the real chalice.

Vaughn shifted to block Sark's view, then switched vials. He poured the new one into the fake chalice. The dark liquid swirled into the base. It smelled awful; sickly sweet. There wasn't much there. He hoped it would be enough. Hoped it would work.

Will doubled up, groaning, nearly knocking the chalice from Vaughn's hand. "Easy there," Vaughn murmured. He hated the feeling that they were gambling with Will's life. Sydney had assured him they weren't, had assured him the antidote would work. She was the smartest person he knew, except maybe Marshall. It had to be safe.

He felt Sark's steely eyes fixed on him. The man was as dispassionate as a scientist, watching Will, watching Vaughn, drawing conclusions. Had he seen Vaughn switch the vial?

It was cold on the steps, colder still with the rain coming down steadily and the wind whipping at their hair and clothes. Vaughn remembered the bone-chilling effects of Sark's poison. He pulled Will into a semi-sitting position, slumped against his chest, hoping to pass on some heat. Will was limp now, breathing shallowly. Unconscious already?

"Will. Will, wake up! You need to drink this," Vaughn said. He pressed the cup against Will's mouth. Will groaned and pulled away.

In his earpiece, Sydney's breathing was faster than his own. She had to be running. "I'm almost there," she said, as though she had sensed his thought.

Vaughn tipped the cup up, forcing the antidote into Will's mouth.

Will swallowed reflexively, then pushed Vaughn's hand away. "Nnnh," he said. He glared up, focusing somewhere past Vaughn's left ear.

Sark's eyes narrowed.

"Give it a minute," Vaughn said.

Sark shrugged. "Your funeral. Or his." He glanced around at the crosses. "You're in the right place for it."

Without warning, Will jerked straight, eyes wide and staring. The force of his movement knocked Vaughn back. The chalice clattered on the stairs, spilling the small amount of dark fluid that had been left. Blood. Against the white marble, it looked like blood.

Sark had taken a step back, his eyes nearly as wide as Will's.

"No! It's working," Vaughn said. He prayed he was telling the truth. "I've been through this. It gets worse before it gets better."

Will's body spasmed, convulsing. "He's having a seizure," Vaughn said, speaking for Sydney's benefit now.

"That didn't happen to you," she said. She burst out of the woods, a flash of black, hooded and masked.

Vaughn struggled to protect Will's head.

Sark had already scooped up the chalice. "You convinced me, Mr. Vaughn," he called over his shoulder. "It's the real chalice. I apologize for not trusting you with a sample of the real poison."

"Bastard!" Sydney launched herself into the air, tackling Sark. They fell together, Sark's arms outstretched. In seconds, she had him pinned, her forearm across his throat.

"There's a gun in his pocket," Vaughn called, when he saw Sark reaching for it.

Sydney shifted position, trapping Sark. "You'll have to get the chalice," she told Vaughn. "It's in my bag." Now he noticed the sling-like bag strapped diagonally across her back.

Vaughn hesitated, afraid to leave Will while he was still seizing.

Sark's eyes had gone wide. "I know your voice."

Sydney punched him in the chin, knocking his head back onto the pavement. Sark went limp. At the same time, so did Will.

Sydney moved like a panther. She was at Vaughn's side in a heartbeat, pulling the bag off over her head in a fluid motion. "Here," she said, passing him the chalice.

Will lay still, not even the rise and fall of his chest to reassure them. Vaughn leaned over, listening and feeling for breath, checking for a pulse. Nothing.

He felt, rather than saw, Sydney's eyes on him. Didn't look up at her, because he couldn't stand to see her heartbreak.

He started CPR, breathing for Will, compressing his heart, hoping he was doing more than just circulating whatever mix of poisons was in Will's system. Will's skin was cold against his face.

Beside him, he heard a choking sound.

"Hold it together. Stay strong. I know you can," he said, as he pumped Will's chest. He wasn't sure who he was talking to—Sydney? Will? Himself? Maybe all three.

Then Sydney was moving to Will's other side. "The chalice," she said. "Maybe Sark brought the real poison with him—."

But it was only a chance, and they had no way of knowing where Sark would have hidden it. Vaughn flashed back to the winery. Sark's voice. _We'll save that rather unappetizing experiment for later, shall we?_

"His blood, Syd! It can make the cure from his blood. There's a swiss army knife in my pocket. Front right."

A moment's hesitation, then he felt her swipe the knife from his pocket. She pulled Will's arm out, made a deep cut across his palm. Blood welled up in time with Vaughn's compressions.

Sydney forced Will's hand into a fist, then held it over the chalice. "Don't you die on me," she said. The fierceness in her voice took Vaughn by surprise. "Not you. Don't you dare."

How much was enough? Vaughn kept compressing, watching the bright liquid trickle out of Will's fist, into the cup.

"It's changing." Sydney held the chalice so Vaughn could see the clear liquid bubbling in the bottom.

A sound, behind them.

"Check Sark!" A gunmetal click told Vaughn he was too late with his warning.


	9. Chapter 9: Despair

__

_This is finished now, so I'll be updating and tidying to make sure everything expires at the same time. Thank you so much to everyone who read and reviewed, and encouraged me to keep going with it! _

_Disclaimer: None of the Alias characters here, or the backstory events referred to, are mine. They belong to J.J. Abrams, or someone associated with the television show. You already knew that._

**Alias: Elusive**

**Chapter Nine: Despair**

Vaughn froze.

"Put the chalice down," he heard Sark say. Vaughn turned to look. Sark had the gun pointed at Sydney's head.

Sydney did as asked, then eased herself to her feet, hands up.

"This time, I'll see your face," Sark said. "No tricks. Take off the mask. Mr. Vaughn, I'm sure I don't need to warn you about interfering."

Vaughn fought the urge to run at Sark. His pulse hammered in his head. A distraction. All she needed was a few seconds. His eyes darted from Sydney to Sark, then back.

Sydney shook her head at him. "The antidote. Do it, Vaughn! Will's running out of time."

"So are you." Sark's voice was suddenly cold. "The mask, please."

Vaughn took advantage of Sark's focus on Sydney to pour some of the antidote into Will's mouth. Stupid. Will wasn't breathing, he wasn't about to swallow. With the next set of compressions, it just trickled out again.

Watching the blood seep from Will's cut hand gave him an idea. He poured the antidote over the open wound, then squeezed Will's hand shut tightly, using the strap from Sydney's bag to secure it in place. How much time had they lost? Will's face was grey.

He went back to compressions. If he had gotten even a little of the antidote into Will's bloodstream… if he could circulate it back to the heart…. If, if, if.

It was all he had.

"Stop," Sark said to him. "Honestly, you're breaking my heart."

Vaughn ignored him, kept compressing Will's chest. Most of Sark's attention was on Sydney, anyhow.

Sydney still faced Sark, the bottom of the mask gripped in one fist, the front of her hood in the other.

Sark waved the gun. "Now, sweetling. I haven't got all day."

She pulled back her hood, letting her blond hair spill free around her shoulders. Vaughn thought he saw Sark's mouth twitch in appreciation. A different kind of gut twist, that, as his urge to kill Sark reached depths he hadn't known himself capable of.

Sydney took one step closer to Sark. Then, moving so fast the motion blurred, she kicked Sark's gun hand. The gunshot rang in the air, a bullet chipping the top of the monument, but the gun flew free. The gun landed behind Vaughn.

Vaughn had frozen when the gun fired, but seeing Sydney unharmed, he checked on Will, pressing his fingers against Will's neck.

"He has a pulse," Vaughn said. It was thready and weak, but there. And then Will was coughing. Vaughn turned him on his side.

"I'd get him to a hospital, if I were you," Sark said. He grabbed the chalice.

Sydney made no move to stop him, standing as still as if she had been stunned.

Vaughn saw Sark glance towards his gun. "Don't bother," he warned. "I can get there first. Take your damned cup and get out of here."

Sark nodded once, then ran off.

--

Vaughn found the steady beep of Will's heart monitor hypnotic. It wandered into and out of his thoughts, sometimes a reminder that time was passing, sometimes leading him into a new memory.

Nothing else lifted the thick silence of the room.

He dragged one hand across his forehead. How many times had he been here? Another hospital room, another set of pastel sheets and chemical smells, another night spent waiting helplessly while someone he cared about fought for life.

A selfish part of him rejoiced that it wasn't Sydney lying here, that she was alive and well. He pushed the thought deep down. He wasn't glad that Will was here. He wasn't. It was just… easier to take than the thought of losing Sydney again.

He laid his hand over the other man's: an apology. Will's hand was cold and unmoving, still, though the doctors were optimistic. "Miraculous," one doctor had termed his progress, looking at Will's steadily improving blood test results. Vaughn wondered if the doctor had ever heard of Rambaldi. Unlikely.

Behind him, the heavy door opened, then closed. Another nurse. Vaughn barely glanced up as the green-clad figure came to his side. It was a CIA hospital. They were safe here, although Sydney had refused to come in. Had refused, again, to explain why.

He was used to being at the centre of her secrets. To be on the outside, suddenly—it was hard. He could deal, though. If that was the cost of having her back, he'd do it. He'd tell her he was sorry, he'd stop pushing. They'd get through it together, whatever it was, and he'd let her tell him what she could, when she was ready.

If she came back.

Vaughn wanted a drink. Badly.

A cool hand against his cheek. He looked up, startled. Sydney's eyes looked back at him, over a blue surgical mask. "You should get some sleep," she said.

He shook his head. "How's he doing?"

"He's going to be fine," Sydney said. "And he won't wake up until morning, at the earliest." She glanced around. "I can't stay here."

Vaughn gripped her hand. The beeping of the monitor seemed to grow louder, seemed to fill up the room.

"What?" she asked.

He shook his head. "It's just—every time that you leave, every single time, I wonder if I'm going to see you again."

Her eyes darkened. He wished he could see her expression. Always a mask, always a barrier. "Come with me," she said.

"Someone should stay with him."

Sydney freed herself from Vaughn's hand. She leaned over Will's bed, watched him a moment, then pulled her mask down to kiss his forehead. Vaughn's face burned as her mask slid back into place. The look on Syd's face, what he could see of it, was tender as she brushed Will's hair back from his forehead. She whispered something in Will's ear.

Vaughn would have given a great deal to know what she said.

Finally, she turned back to him. "Do you really think I'd leave him unprotected? Do you think I'd leave him at all, if I wasn't completely sure he'd be all right?" she asked.

"No, but—."

"Then come with me. If you don't come now, we won't have a chance. I want to talk about it. I want to explain. To—to be with you." He thought she looked frightened. "You have to come now."

--

Vaughn followed Sydney through a series of corridors and staircases, finally out onto the roof, under a cold, bright-starred sky. "Where are we going?"

She shook her head, motioned for him to keep following. At last, she stopped before a steel wall that formed part of the screen around a rooftop garden. He caught a whiff of roses. She pressed her palm against the wall in a spot that looked no different from any other. It slid smoothly to one side, revealing a narrow elevator.

He stepped in beside her. She pressed a button, sealing the door again. The elevator started to move, as quietly as the door had.

"What is all this?"

Sydney removed her mask. She gave him a fleeting half-smile. "We're going to a part of the hospital that doesn't exist. It's where they deal with people who don't exist."

It felt like a long ride down. He watched her face the whole way.

When they hit bottom, the door slid open again. Sydney stepped out. He caught her glancing around as she moved. Spy habits. He did the same thing.

The hall was dimly lit, but lined with mirrors and cedar strips, giving it the feeling of a hotel lobby rather than a hospital or a lab. "There won't be anyone down here," Sydney said. "Not now."

She led him to a doctors' lounge. Again, the furnishing belied the place. Armchairs and mahogany tables; even fresh cut flowers. This room was more brightly lit than the hall had been. No windows, though. He wondered how far underground they were.

"Swank place," he said.

"When people come here… they're usually here for a while," Sydney said.

Several unmarked doors led off the doctors' lounge. She led him through one. It was a small room, with a single bed, a small table and two wooden chairs. She smiled apologetically. "It's not the Ritz, but it's not a hospital bed, either. There are those, down here. I don't think I could stand… a hospital room."

He crossed the room in two strides. "So now we're safe? No one's watching?"

"No one's watching," she said.

"So I can do this." He tilted her head back, wrapped his hands in the blond hair that he still hadn't gotten used to, then kissed her.

She kissed back, full of heat and passion and strength, pushing him back against the wall. At that moment he didn't particularly care if they were in a hospital room or underground or on Mars. She was his. She was back.

--

Later, they lay together on a bed that was designed for one, his legs tangled in the same sheets that wrapped around her body. She rested her head on his shoulder. He should have been exhausted, but he lay there, playing with her strange, blond hair.

Was it possible to be too happy? Their friend had nearly died. So had he, come to think of it. She had secrets, so many secrets it was eating her up inside. They were hiding from the world in a tiny room in a basement that didn't exist.

And he couldn't stop grinning. She was back.

"What are you thinking?" Sydney's voice was muffled against his chest.

"Thinking… not really thinking much," he said. "Mostly just enjoying."

She whispered a hand along his sternum, making him shiver. "Enjoying is good." But her voice was strained.

He rolled her away so he could see her, hating to put even that much distance between them. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she said. She raised her head, pasting a quick smile on. "Hey, I need to give you your knife back." She had to lean over him to reach her discarded clothing. He couldn't pretend he didn't enjoy it.

She snuggled back into place, passing him the swiss army knife that they had used to save Will's life. "Boy Scout," she said. But her teasing rang hollow.

He closed his hand around it, not speaking. It brought the memories back, somehow, made everything real.

Silence grew around them.

"Is it time to talk?" he asked.

He felt her nod. "I wish it wasn't. I wish we could just stay here," she said.

He tightened his grip on her. Didn't speak, though. He could do this much for her. Let her tell what she could, in her own time, without him pushing for answers.

"When I…died…," she said, "There was a reason. A reason why I had to go so deep undercover that even the people I love most—especially the people I love most—couldn't know." And she told him.

He listened for a long time, while she told him what she had done, what she had been through, who she had become. Who Julia Thorne was. How she would never have left her old life if not for what happened to Francie. "I'm a hazard, Vaughn. Have you noticed what happens to everyone I meet? I wanted out. I wanted to quit. But mostly, I didn't want to be a danger to anyone anymore." She was crying, now. "I thought—if I was gone, if Sydney Bristow didn't exist anymore—you might all be safer."

He closed his eyes against her words. It took him long moments to choose his own. "You asked me a question. You asked if I noticed what happens to everyone you meet," he said. He raised her up so she was looking him in the eye. "I have. They become better, Sydney. Everyone becomes better for having you in their lives. I know I have. And there's a cost to that, and the wrong people pay it. It happens, because the world is not a perfect place. But I've seen what the world is like without Sydney Bristow. Syd, it's not a place I want to be. Never again."

She grew still. Too still, looking at him with eyes that held more pain than he ever wanted to see again.

"What?" he asked. "What aren't you telling me?" He felt a sudden urge to be dressed, so he'd be armoured against whatever was coming.

"You can't know I'm alive."


	10. Chapter 10: Forgetting

_This is finished now, so I'll be updating and tidying to make sure everything expires at the same time. Thank you so much to everyone who read and reviewed, and encouraged me to keep going with it! _

_Disclaimer: None of the Alias characters here, or the backstory events referred to, are mine. They belong to J.J. Abrams, or someone associated with the television show. You already knew that._

**Alias: Elusive **

**Chapter Ten: Forgetting**

Vaughn let go of Sydney.

She had lit candles, before, producing them from who knew where. Vanilla, some hint of spice. Candlelight on her strange, pale hair. Julia Thorne's hair.

The room still smelled of vanilla.

Sydney reached for him.

He pulled away. "What are you talking about?" But he knew. In his gut, he knew.

"You can't know," she said. "You can't remember that you saw me. Do you understand?"

He needed to sit, needed to be in control. Needed not to feel her pressed along the length of him, if he was going to get through this.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, then reached for his boxers. "You want me to pretend?"

"No. Not pretend."

One leg, then the other. It wasn't so hard if you concentrated, if you ignored the words hanging in the room. First boxers, then jeans. Then turn to face her. "No way. We're not even talking about this."

She sat up, wrapping the sheet around her. Each of them, adding layers of cloth to the distance between them. "There's nothing to talk about, Vaughn. I wish there was. I'm sorry. More than you'll ever know."

The vanilla scent was overpowering, now. He placed one hand on his stomach.

"Are you okay?" She reached again.

He glared her away.

Sydney took a deep breath. "They're going to—they want me to put you to sleep. They'll give you something to make you more susceptible to hypnosis. When you wake up… you won't remember that I'm alive. You won't remember that you saw me."

He was going to be sick. "You don't know what you're asking." It wasn't possible. To go back to where he had been… no. There had to be another way.

She had pulled back now, raised her knees, wrapped her arms around them. She looked like a child. "Do you think I wanted this?"

"You agreed to it." Had that come from him? His voice was cold. He sounded like Jack.

He rubbed his forehead. He'd barely slept since Will's disappearance, and now he felt the weight of all those hours. "It's okay. We'll get through this. We'll figure something out." He tried a smile, hoped it didn't look as ghastly as it felt. "What's my countermission?"

She shook her head. "There isn't one. Not this time."

Abruptly, he stood up. "So this is why you came back? One last—." He couldn't make himself say it. "And you're going to make sure I don't even remember it."

She flinched.

He felt dirty. Wanted a shower.

Wanted a drink.

Not much hope of that in this place.

"No. I can disappear. We'll both disappear," he said, pacing. "Borneo. Anywhere. It doesn't matter. Somewhere they can't find us."

"Vaughn, I can't. This is too important," she said.

"Your mission?" His voice cracked. "Your _mission_ is too important?" He looked around. "That's why we're here, isn't it? That's why they let you bring me here. So I'd have nowhere to go."

Her silence was answer enough.

"How long do we have?" he asked.

"Not long." Her voice was close to a whisper.

"You'd better get dressed, then." Pointedly, he turned his back.

He whirled through the scenarios in his mind. If he caught her off guard, he might be able to outrun her for a little while. But to where? And if he did manage to get away, what about the others, these mysterious 'others' she was working with? Would Sydney let him escape, or would she call for reinforcements? Could she really betray him like that?

He felt nauseous. Maybe it was better to forget. Forget this place, forget her betrayal.

No.

He had to try.

He forced himself to relax, to give no sign, then he bolted for the door. She was far enough behind that he heard the door slam behind him. Good, that was good. Runnning, now, any direction, it didn't matter. He dodged out of the main corridor. She'd expect him to head for the elevator, so he went the other way. He'd hide, double back later, while she searched.

Spy habits. Subconscious mind always making notes, making plans, filing things away. There should be a door, just here. There was. He darted inside.

It was a kitchen. Two entrances, that was good. A quick scan of the room, then he stepped on the counter and launched himself up, tensing his arms and legs, holding himself wedged between two ceiling beams. Sydney was too good for this to work for long, but it might buy him a second. A second might be enough.

Or—and he hoped, deep down, he did hope—if he gave her enough plausible deniability, she might let him go. Make a chase of it, pretend he gave her the slip, report back to her superiors that she had given it the old college try.

He almost laughed aloud. Nice fantasy. He forced himself to reel his thoughts back in. She'd be coming.

He held his breath, listened. Nothing.

Of course. This was Sydney Bristow he was dealing with. He wasn't going to hear a thing.

There was a trick to holding yourself against the ceiling like this: relaxing and stiffening each muscle in turn in a tiny, invisible motion, so nothing cramped up or fatigued.

It wasn't working. Vaughn felt sweat forming from the strain. His left leg trembled.

Then she was there, in the kitchen. He caught the glint of a silver hypodermic needle in her left hand.

He knew her reflexes—she'd glance left, then right, then up and ahead. No time to wait for her to be below him. He let go, landed in a crouch in front of her. Let his momentum carry him forwards to pin her against the wall.

He had the advantage of size. Probably the only one he had. He squeezed her left hand, hating that he was hurting her.

She dropped the needle.

"Can't use it now, Syd. Not sterile," he said, then grunted as she landed a kick.

She twisted once, and was free.

So much for his advantage. They circled.

"Please don't make me fight you," she said.

He snorted. "I've never been able to _make_ you do anything."

"You're making this harder."

What did she want? An apology? "Should have got me in bed. I wasn't expecting it, then."

He could see it in her face—his comment had stung her. Good.

He was closer to the door than she was, now. He saw her eyes flick to the needle. Grabbing it would slow her down, but not enough.

No, there was only one way to handle this. He stepped left, feinted, then dove for the needle. He twisted, came up armed with it. Whatever was in the syringe, he'd be careful. She was small. Wouldn't need as much to knock her out.

Didn't want to have to.

He ran.

Sydney chased. She was faster, she was gaining. He used his last seconds to squirt some of the clear fluid out of the syringe, so he wouldn't give her too much, then turned and jabbed the needle into her thigh.

"Sorry, Sydney," he said, getting ready to catch her.

Then he felt the answering pinprick in his arm.

What?

He looked at the empty needle in his hand. It fell to the floor.

"Saline," she said, gently. "Did you think I'd underestimate you like that?"

His vision was blurring now, dark at the edges. "No. Don't do this."

She was crying openly now, tears streaming down her face. He reached up to touch them, but his arm wouldn't lift. He sagged against the wall. She caught him, lowered him to the floor.

"Syd." It was important that she understand. He strained to make his mouth form the words. "This will kill me. It will. It nearly did, the first time." His face felt numb.

She was cradling his head now, her tears splashing hot onto his face. "I'm coming back," she whispered. "Wait for me. I know you will. I'm so sorry, Vaughn. I love you, more than anything."

The world went dark while he stared at her face.

--

Hospital smell. A beeping. Faint at first, then louder. Vaughn tried to ignore it, then remembered. Will's heart monitor. He must have dozed off.

He opened his eyes.

Fluorescent lights stared back.

He blinked.

"Hey, look who's awake."

Vaughn turned his head in the direction of Will's voice.

Will sat up, winced, then crossed the room to stand beside Vaughn's bed. The beeping continued. Not Will's heart monitor, then.

Vaughn looked down at himself, registered the monitor leads, the intravenous tubes. He reached up to tug the oxygen prongs off his face.

"What happened?" His voice was a croak.

"Yeah, you've been out of it for a while," Will said. He offered Vaughn a sip of water from a cup on the beside table. Cold but stale, like melted ice.

Will waited until Vaughn had finished, then put the cup back for him. "My grasp on recent events is a bit sketchy, but as near as anyone can figure, Sark injected you with something, then took off before he could finish the experiment and bring you back." Will paused. "He got away. With the chalice or grail or whatever it was supposed to be."

It was a lot to take in. Vaughn tried to remember. Nothing. "How?"

Will shook his head. "I've got no idea. Apparently you put the call in to the extraction team, but you weren't making a lot of sense at the time. They knew you were doing CPR, and they were able to trace your call." Will stopped again. His hands tightened on the bed railing. The right one was bandaged, Vaughn noticed.

When Will continued, it was in a lighter tone. "So apparently I have Sark to thank for the bullet hole and the chemical hangover, and you for the sliced hand and cracked ribs. Oh yeah, and my life." His tone turned serious again. "So, thank you."

Vaughn managed a smile. "I don't remember," he admitted. "But hey, I'll take the credit for saving a friend."

Will's answering smile vanished quickly. "You scared me. They wouldn't—after I woke up, they wouldn't let me see you for a long time. I was starting to think—you know. Then they finally wheel your sorry butt in here, and some guy named Kendall tells me what happened. Apparently he's waiting to talk to you."

Vaughn closed his eyes. "Not yet," he said. He felt exhausted. And Sydney—it all came rushing back. The loss felt raw again. A debrief was more than he could handle.

"Sure. I'll let you get some rest. You must be tired after all that… sleeping. You know, you'd think a world-class banker qualified for a private room, but no, I have to share with secretary Sleeping Beauty."

Secretary? Oh. The plane. "You fired me." Vaughn mumbled the reminder.

"Yeah, that." Will patted Vaughn's shoulder. "I figure you've earned your job back. What with the CPR and all. Maybe you can even have a promotion."

Vaughn felt the corners of his mouth twitch up, then he let sleep take him again.

He dreamed of a castle, of marble crosses in the rain, and of Sydney.

Always of Sydney.

--

"You've been staring at that whiskey for an hour, son," the bartender said. You gonna drink it?"

"No. I guess I'm not." Vaughn pushed the glass away. He'd been out of the hospital for a week now, home for two days.

The CIA had been surprisingly understanding about the spectacular failure of Vaughn's non-mission, as he thought of it. Also about the lack of details in his debrief with Kendall. Vaughn had apologized for not being able to remember more.

"Don't worry about it, son. Probably an after-effect of the poison," Kendall had said, then paused, watching him. "Was there anything you wanted to add?"

Vaughn still wasn't sure what Kendall had been looking for. He had said nothing.

There were gaps. Kendal had insinuated that Gemma had been a double agent, but had betrayed both them and Sark.

He got a headache when he tried to remember too many specifics.

Kendall had nodded. "All right, then. We'll see you when you're ready to come back, Agent Vaughn." He had paused again. "Let me know."

Now he stared at the bar's countertop, traced the rings scored in the woodgrain by condensation, beer mugs. Listened to the music—country, upbeat. All wrong for his mood. On the big-screen television, the Leafs and the Flyers skated silently.

Just another guy in a bar.

Someone slid onto the stool beside him. "You going all twelve-steps on me?" Will.

Vaughn turned to face him.

Will jerked his chin at the untouched glass of whisky.

Vaughn shook his head. "I had a couple. Then I just didn't want it. It kind of hit me. She's not in there. She's gone. She's really gone, Will."

Will waited a beat, didn't push. But just like with Kendall, Vaughn didn't have anything else to add. What else could there be?

"Want to watch the game at my place instead?" Will finally asked. "I've got this puny little television with crappy reception. Beats the heck out of these big, glossy bar ones. Plus, I can provide stale pizza if you want."

The offer caught Vaughn off guard. Then he cracked a smile. "Yeah. Yeah, I do."

"Good. Because there's something I want to talk to you about."

Vaughn settled up, then followed Will outside, to his car. Vaughn noted the two 'inconspicuous' CIA guards. He raised an eyebrow at Will.

Will shrugged. "What can I say? I seem to be an important man, these days. Favourite punching bag of all the big baddies."

On the plus side, the guards followed in their own car.

Vaughn watched the streetlights go by, remembering that other night, not long ago. They'd jumped a plane, gone to chase a dream. Crazy. He felt separate from that person now, like everything had happened in the distant past.

"So, uh, I'm just going to say it," Will said. "This is goodbye."

That brought his attention back. "Goodbye? As in—?"

"As in witness protection program." Will glanced at him, then stared back at the road again. "I'm not thrilled, obviously, but I seem to be a loose end. The guy the bad guys use for leverage, the guy they think knows more than he—than I—really do. Just a matter of time until they start working through my family."

So Will was leaving, too. His circle of friends was getting pitifully small. "Do you know where they're putting you?"

"No. Better that way, I guess." Will flexed his fingers on the steering wheel. "I can't be a reporter, either. Too visible. Guess I'll have to learn a trade or something. I always kind of wanted to work with my hands."

Vaughn waited through a red light, choosing his words. As the car moved forwards again, he spoke. "Look, I know we haven't always—for what it's worth, I consider you a friend. And I'm glad I got the chance to do that."

"Yeah?" Will's grin again, light and easy. "I kind of thought you were a pompous prick at first, but you grew on me, too." He paused. "It won't be easy, but I figure a fresh start doesn't sound so bad."

Vaughn thought about it.

The loss of Sydney had shattered him. He felt it still, pieces of himself torn and scattered where she had been ripped away. Maybe it was time to start picking up the pieces.

No, a fresh start didn't sound so bad at all.

-The End-


End file.
